


you can handle the truth inside of me

by Maharetchan



Series: impromptu [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Play, Canon-Typical Violence, Food Kink, M/M, Medical Procedures, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Will Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal offers Will a part of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lacking iron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Underground](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underground/gifts).



> 1\. So it all started with the innocent thought of "what would happen if Hannibal proposed Will to cook with his own blood?" and exploded in a 17k+ long fic that escaped my control. Will be posted in three chapters for length reasons, but it's completed.  
> Special thanks to Livy for the support and to all the people I bored to death while writing this.  
> 2\. I have a tumblr ([murasakilecters](http://murasakilecters.tumblr.com/) ) so feel free to message me there if you feel like. I'd love it! ^^  
> 

They're in bed when Hannibal brings up the idea, with Will sitting half naked between his legs and the man wrapped all around him, one hand gently caressing his stomach, while the other guides Will's attempts at the theremin.

 

He can sense the curve of his body against his back even through the thick cotton of the half open shirt the man is still wearing, the hard bones and soft muscles, can feel him breathing on his skin, inhaling his scent, while they both listen the unusual sounds the instrument produces spreading around them: Will tries to allow his mind to focus on playing, but there's a tension in Hannibal's stance, a very subtle one and that no one except him would probably notice, that keeps distracting him, as does the hand that moves across his naked chest until it goes to rest on his thigh.

 

Hannibal's body is firm and tense, and something is hiding behind it, waiting for him to open the door and let it be uncovered: Hannibal is so good at this, especially with him, he knows how to manipulate himself and his own physicality to send the right messages and get the reactions he wants. Right now, he wants Will to read him, to feel his desire, to allow him to show it to him.

 

He can't help a smile at that, at how much the man relies on his opinion and weights his reactions these days: it's oddly intimate, that fucked up way they love so much.

 

Hannibal's nails dig faintly into the soft flesh of his leg, and his teeth and lips flicker on the exposed side of his neck, bypassing his still slightly damp hair and pressing lightly against his pulse point, dangerous, but not threatening. Will inhales deeply and stops playing, but does not turn around, completely aware of the smile spreading on Hannibal's face without having to see it.

 

“You should just say whatever it is that you want to say.”

 

“What makes you think there is something I want to say?”

 

There's a moment of silence: Will closes his eyes and breathes in and out for a few seconds, to clear his head. He can see behind his closed eyelids the predatory expression the man must have, always reminding him of the darkness lurking in the corners. But the peace around him softens the edges and makes him feel oddly relaxed despite this.

 

It's a gift only Hannibal seems to have, to be able to perfectly blend the monster with the man.

 

“Everything about your body language: you're never this obvious about it unless you want me to be the one who allows you to bring up what you're dying to say out loud, but somehow feel it'll sound more acceptable if I show some interest in wanting to know about it.”

 

“You seem to be getting better and better at reading me. Unless I am the one who's starting to lose touch.”

 

He rolls his eyes and shifts his position a little.

 

“It's not that hard to do it, if you send all the right signals and put them right in front of me.”

 

Hannibal kisses his shoulder lightly.

 

“But you are getting better at slipping under my skin, at catching glimpses of what hides behind my defenses. That is undeniable.”

 

Will smiles sadly at that, because this gift comes with a great price, but his fingers slide on the back of Hannibal's hand gently, a caress that speaks of a deep intimacy forged in blood and tragedy.

 

“It's easier to see once the fog has dissipated... Or once you allowed it to dissipate.”

 

He sounds bitter, and Hannibal accepts it with grace, and they both know he doesn't regret anything he has done, mostly because it ended up giving him exactly the result he wanted.

 

The soft material of Hannibal's shirt flutters around him as the man wraps his arms tighter to pull him closer to him; Will knows how deadly that embrace can be, and yet still leans into it, needing more of it, more contact, unable to pull away. Hannibal kisses his neck, scratches the inside of his thigh lightly and Will feels himself inhaling slowly. 

 

He knows something is coming and abandons himself to it while Hannibal carefully measures his words one by one.

 

“What would your reaction be if I proposed to cook for you using my own blood in the recipe?”

 

Will goes very still and the first thought that comes to his mind is the image of Hannibal with his throat slashed open, of himself holding a knife with his mouth red and full of blood, gulping it down and then chewing off more of the soft, dying flesh under him, lapping at the wound while the man smiles at him with his last breaths. He shivers in his arms and Hannibal grabs him harder.

 

He waits for a while before replying, Hannibal still silent behind him.

 

“Why would you want to do something like that?”

 

His voice comes out hoarse and low, violent imagery still fluttering in front of his eyes, but he forces himself to stay in control and not show too much of it, even though he knows Hannibal can read him just as well as he can read him.

 

It's a mutually assured destruction of its own very special kind.

 

“It's something I have considered for a long time actually, a secret desire I usually relegate in the back of my mind, but that has been brought to the surface more and more lately.”

 

“Is it because I know who you are and what you do? Because now you feel like you can... openly discuss this?”

 

Hannibal doesn't say anything for a few minutes, and then his hand goes to gently brush his hair, both possessive and caring at the same time.

 

“Yes, I will not deny thar this plays a part in the resurgence of this particular fantasy. Finally being able to let some secrets out in the open, at least with you, seems to have produced curious effects in me.”

 

Will thinks about his words, about the implications they carry, about the blood that stains his hands and the piles of bodies he's responsible for. But all he can think about is the proposal, the apparently harmless request that weights so heavily on him now, and makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

 

He allows himself to imagine what Hannibal's blood would taste like, before opening his eyes and turning a little to look at him; he's relaxed and there's the ghost of a smile on his lips.

 

“Why would you do it? You didn't answer my question.”

 

Hannibal suddenly backs away from him and goes to lie down against the headboard, surrounded by the pillow, while Will doesn't move from his spot, just positions himself in front of him. The man smiles at his and he can't help but shivering again.

 

“You surely understand the appeal this would have for me. The idea of consuming a part of myself, the meneater eating a piece his own body, or at least something that the body contains, something he constantly spills. It is very seductive in its appalling nature.”

 

“You thought about it? About eating a part of yourself?”

 

He succeeds into not sounding strained, but at the same time curious and vaguely excited, while his mind elaborates possible scenarios for him: Hannibal cutting away one of his fingers, mutilating himself, cooking his prize still bandaged and high on painkillers, eating it alone in a half dark room and reverting into the taste of his own flesh. 

 

Would he vomit it after? Or would he be able to keep it down? Will licks his lips and shifts a little bit closer.

 

“Of course I have, this fascination with auto-cannibalism accompanied me for several years. I have envisioned several possibilities to realize my fantasies, but self surgery is very dangerous and impractical, and who would I trust to operate on me and understand my desires? And even if I could find someone, I would be incapacitated to... dispose of them after the surgery. But blood... extracting blood is practically harmless and extremely easy. It would be the most logical choice.”

 

Hannibal lays down his speech with clinical precision, managing to sound at the same time detached, seduced and aroused by the idea: there's a light in his eyes that makes Will's heart beat a little faster in his chest and look away, suddenly uncomfortable.

 

How at ease Hannibal is about exposing the most terrible and dangerous side of him, trusting Will to keep his secret, to protect him despite everything, makes him feel both grateful and trapped; it's an intimacy he never experienced before and that scares him, that changes his perception of the world and twists it into a beast that threatens to eat him whole. Their bodies aren't even touching, and yet there's a soft electricity running between them. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a few minutes before looking up to him again.

 

“Then why you never did it before? Why never give in to the desire if it was so strong and so simple to realize?”

 

Hannibal clasps his hands together on his stomach and stares at him with an unreadable expression, with something moving behind the blank look in his eyes that examine him, and Will feels scrutinized and cut open right there in front of him, yet he endures it and stays still, smiling faintly because there's a vague tension in the man's posture that speaks volume about how important his reaction will be.

 

Will feels powerful in the strangest ways with him, knows Hannibal can become soft clay in his hands if he wants to be, that he accesses something deep and remote inside him and that makes him strong, gives him leverage.

 

The man simply shrugs in the end.

 

“I never found the right occasion, the right set of circumstances.”

 

Will stares at him for a long time, and then suddenly lets out a muffled laugh.

 

“You wanted to share it with someone who could understand the significance of your... gift, appreciate it fully, knowing what it represented, who you are, what you do. You want to offer it to an equal, to someone who's capable of seeing the monster you hide so carefully from the world and accept it.”

 

Hannibal smiles at him, with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes and Will can see his teeth, can feel them on his skin, can anticipate the taste of their exchange in his mouth; it sends a thrill of pleasure through him, but he still can't get rid of the underlying disgust that hits his stomach when he actually imagines himself doing it.

 

The man gestures him to come closer, enough for him to run a warm hand on Will's arm, holding him there next to him in a vaguely possessive way that makes him sigh.

 

“It would be very poetical, don't you think? I have taken much from you, you'd be taking something back. And I'd be the one offering it to you, like a worshiper to a divinity.”

 

Will looks away, uncomfortable because of the symbolism Hannibal is using, of the way he talks about the act like it'll be the ultimate proof of his trust.

 

And maybe it is, he thinks, maybe he would be honoring me like this, worshiping me, falling down to his knees and offering me the essence of his being, his own body for me to take. Will grabs his hand hard and digs his nail into the forearm, imagining the veins under the skin, the blood inside them running through Hannibal's body.

 

He imagines himself opening a gash right there, drinking directly from it, lapping at it with his tongue; he shudders, but keeps eye contact.

 

“I don't know if I could do it, it sounds so... morbid. I know we are way past the initial revulsion for your.. practices, but this is different. It would feel differently for me. I'm not sure it'll be different in a way I can accept.”

 

“Because it would be a part of me? The thought of consuming something that used to belong to my body disgusts you so deeply? Are you afraid I would poison you even more than I've already done?”

 

Hannibal massages his arm until Will relaxes a little, smiling sadly, but coming closer.

 

“You know very well it's not that. Could you really do it without a second thought? Without feeling sick or repulsed?”

 

The man remains silent for a while, his fingers pressing into his flesh a little harder, his lips curved in an almost dangerous smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

 

“I assure you that, if compared to my other fantasies, eating a dish prepared with my blood is extremely tame. And I have experienced worst in the past; I think curiosity would trample every possible feeling of disgust I may experience, although of course I cannot be sure of it. The magic of discovery and experience.”

 

Will doesn't say anything; Hannibal lets go of his arm after a while, and Will can still feel the imprint of his fingers on his skin, a mark that digs deep into it like a tattoo. 

 

“You could have done it without telling me, gone behind my back and secretly enjoyed your victory. But that wouldn't be right, it would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? You want me to be there with you on that one line you haven't crossed yet, to partake in something even more unmentionable than what you already usually do. You want me to taste you, do it with you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

His reply is blunt, like it should have been obvious from the start, but Hannibal still appreciates him saying it out loud, exposing his design and dissecting it in front of them like he does with his crimes scenes.

 

Will closes his eyes and nods in the end, but doesn't accept or refuse the offer and Hannibal must catch a glimpse of that indecision on his face, because he takes a deep breath and then smiles.

 

“Would you at least consider the idea? Even if just to humor me.”

 

Will meets his eyes and rises a hand to touch his arm, warm under the soft cotton of his shirt, alive and firm and strong. Hannibal's smile widens and maneuvers him until he's sitting on his lap, pressing him back against the headboard, while the man rubs his nose against his collarbone and inhales deeply, scenting him.

 

He nods.

 

“I can do that, yeah.”

 

Hannibal's hands slide all over his back and Will moans under his breath when he feel the scrapping of his teeth right above his pulse point like a reminder.

 

\----

 

He tries not to focus too much on the proposal, to put it in the back of his mind where he can't see it, where it lies among millions of other thoughts and fantasies, but it pushes itself up front every time he's on a crime scene, every time he looks at the blood pooling and coagulating on the floor, splattered on the faces of the dead, staining walls, surgical gloves and clothes.

 

Will licks his lips and sometimes, even when he's deep into one of his reconstructions, he can't stop thinking about Hannibal, about how having his blood on his hands will feel, the thick and slippery texture running through his fingers, filling his mouth and his belly, how would it taste like mixed with food and served to him like a gourmet dish.

 

Jack calls him out for his lack of attention, mentions how distracted and out of focus he looks, and Will has to try even harder to concentrate, to see, to leave Hannibal's design out of his mind and allow other killers to fill and poison his brain.

 

But when he's home alone, he can let his thoughts wander: he pictures Hannibal with a knife in his hand, cutting two precise and deep lines into his wrists, pressing the blade against his neck, in the hollow of his elbow, the inside of his thighs.

 

He'd get down on his knees and lick it away, can see himself doing it and it sends a thrill of pleasure down his spine, and he wakes up aroused and guilty. Hannibal is capable of manipulating the inside of his being like no one else can, to sip into it deeply like a venom, corroding the tissues and leaving behind decaying flesh with the imprint of his teeth carved into it. Will relishes it, inhaled the scent of death the man brings with him, stares at him intently while they have sex and the man moves hard and fast inside him.

 

Will scratches his back and sucks purple bruises on his neck and all he gets in return is a satisfied smile all teeth and red lips.

 

Hannibal himself never brings up the idea again, allows him space and time to imagine and decide, but knows he's just as attracted by the seduction of it as he's disgusted by its implications.

 

Will spends hours googling recipes and trying to imagine what Hannibal would cook for him. He feels so ridiculous he takes the dogs for long walks and comes back tired enough to crash on the bed, unable to remember his dreams in the morning, but waking up aroused and covered in sweat.

 

And when he does remember them, he's haunted by wilder and wilder fantasies he'll never be able to admit out loud.

 

It's like having a wormwood eating its way inside his brain, like being feverish and obsessed again like when he was sick: he stares at Hannibal while they dine together, while they're in bed, watches him fall asleep next to him, listens to his heartbeat and all he can think about is the blood pumping inside him and about himself spilling it until he'll be completely drained.

 

And can't deny the thrill of pleasure that rushes through him.

 

\----

 

“You kept my appointment standing?”

 

Hannibal smiles and takes his coat, leaving Will free to wander around in his office like he used to during their sessions. He misses them sometimes, the intimacy and peace they carried with them, but at the same time prefers to keep his thoughts a little removed from the other man now that he knows so much about him, now that he's his guilty accomplish who's oddly unable to feel any kind remorse for protecting him.

 

He needs his mind to be only his own to see the world around him clearly.

 

“I use the time to keep my records in order. Can I offer you something to drink?”

 

“Wine, nothing too strong.”

 

They sit in front of each other and it brings back so many memories for Will he needs to distract himself from dwelling in them or they'll swallow him whole and spit out a creature he's not yet ready to face, the ghost of who they used to be, of what they could've been if things had been different.

 

Hannibal's eyes shine in the dim light, staring right through him, analyzing his body language and trying to figure out why he's there all of a sudden, trying to read on his face a decision: but he hasn't made one yet, and the reason why he's there is to fuel his curiosity and find the edges of Hannibal's design.

 

Will drinks some more of his wine and then smiles softly at him.

 

“Sometimes I expect you to start looking differently to me, to see your face morph and change right in front of my eyes and reveal... something else, something you buried so deep under your cover it can only be brought to the light after a long and careful digging.”

 

“But it never happens?”

 

Will shrugs. 

 

“Maybe I have to dig deeper.”

 

He gets up again, unable to sit still, the glass still in his hand: he runs his fingers on the back of the covers of the books in the shelves, feeling their textures and grounding himself to what is solid and real, before adventuring into the secret world of the mind of Hannibal Lecter.

 

“But no, it doesn't happen. You're still the same man to me, I just see more of you now: not everything yet, but more.”

 

Hannibal nods absently and follows him with his eyes.

 

“Have you thought about my suggestion?”

 

“You know I have. You probably enjoy the thought of me obsessing over it.”

 

His words sound alien in his mouth, like somebody else is talking through him, a darker self that hides in the black corner of his mind: Will takes a couple of deep breaths, but the feeling remains.

 

Hannibal is quiet for a few minutes, looking as still as a statue, drawing Will's attention back to him no matter how hard he tries to focus on something else. When he feels moderately calm again, he goes to sit on the desk, his gaze never faltering when it meets Hannibal's.

 

A sudden flash of himself bending over the solid wood while Hannibal fucks him hard from behind, pinning him down and biting his neck hard, runs through his brain and Will swallows, but his lips curve subtly.

 

“Tell me the first thing you thought about when I proposed it to you.”

 

Will considers stalling, changing the subject, but just for a second.

 

“I thought about ripping your throat out with my teeth, drinking directly from the wound, biting down and chewing and lapping at the gash under my lips.”

 

Hannibal smiles like a predator and Will shivers, half aroused and half terrified by his own sincerity.

 

“A very vivid image. I assume it was not the only one. Did you like how it made you feel?”

 

He snorts, but the look in Hannibal's eyes makes him suddenly attentive and focused on every single one of his reactions, on the way he looks at him, on how he explores his body with his eyes like he's trying to scan him and find all his weaknesses and secrets. Will smiles and relaxes a little, because, ironically, he feels safe in the hunger he reads in Hannibal, knows he can play with it and how to do it.

 

“Interested, disgusted, aroused a little, shocked by the intensity of my thoughts. You should know, you're the one who's trying to manipulate me into it, the one who wants it so bad. I had dreams about it, about how we could do it.”

 

“And what kind of feelings they left in you? Did they manage to swing you in one direction or the other?”

 

“Maybe, I don't know yet. I think I need to know more about your real reasoning behind this, why do you want this now, why it's so important for you. I wonder.”

 

Hannibal flaunts him that condescending smile that makes Will want to punch him or kiss him, he's never sure, but his posture is relaxed and calm and he's clearly enjoying their exchange.

 

“I have told you already, there isn't really much to add.”

 

“You want me to say yes or no before you open up to me and tell me the truth then. Very well, I guess I should have expected that.”

 

His eyes shine with amusement and he doesn't deny Will's words.

 

“There is no rush, you can think about this as long as you like. It would defeat the purpose of you enjoying this as much as I would if I tried to force you into it.”

 

Will laughs softly at that, at the earnest manipulation Hannibal is throwing in his face just to see how he'd react to it. It's a game they both play so well and enjoy as much as they do with the honest moments between them, the ones that are buried deep under layers and layers of lies and half truths.

 

“Is that why you've stopped cooking with your... usual main ingredient lately? Because you want me to choose freely? Or is it because you're just throwing me a bone to get what you want?”

 

The reaction he gets from Hannibal alone fills him with a twisted pride he can't hide no matter how much he tries, that opens a beaming grin on his face: the man jerks forward for a moment and his eyes narrow while his perfect smiles falters to shift into an expression of genuine surprise. Will licks his lips and waits for him to say something, observing his face recomposing itself into a perfect mask of calm and contained satisfaction while he gets his control back.

 

“You noticed.”

 

“You underestimated me it seems.”

 

Hannibal gets up, approaches him slowly like a big cat, placing his hands on both sides of his body, keeping him trapped in between, and looking straight into his eyes. Will doesn't move away, but doesn't move forward to meet him either.

 

“I never do, at least I try not to do it, to always keep in mind your strength. Does it change anything for you?”

 

“Depends why you're doing it. I know you don't... intend to stop, at least I guess so, because damned if I'm able to clearly see your plan, that this is just a tactical retreat, or maybe i want to believe that, so I'll not drown in my own illusions, but what triggered it interests me; there must be something big hidden in there if you are willing to go to such great lengths to sway me on your side, to make me see your design, even if it's just a small part of it for now.”

 

The man thinks very carefully about his reply, never looking away from him.

 

“Perhaps I'm simply trying to clean your palate in advance, in hope you'll agree with my plan.”

 

Will allows him to slide his fingers on the back of his hand.

 

“You want me to taste only you and no one else, sounds possessive enough to be something you'd do...”

 

“But?”

 

He sighs, while Hannibal presses himself more against him, filling his nostrils with the scent of his aftershave and his visual with his body.

 

“I can believe this is part of the reason why you're doing it, but there's more. You never do anything unless you have a clear plan in mind and there's no way you don't have one now. Either there's something you can only show me if I agree, or you're giving me an easy, but unconvincing story to make me curious about what you're hiding so I'll go along with your plan just to find out. In any case, you're hiding something.”

 

Hannibal kisses his neck lightly, his lips pressing on his pulse point; Will doesn't know if he's trying to distract him or biding his time to think of a worthy reply.

 

“Are you willing to just accept my current explanation about why this means so much to me for now? It may not be the whole truth, but I assure you that a good part of it does relate to my fantasies and to my desire to share them with you.”

 

“Like a communion. You offer me your blood and I am the receiver and the facilitator of your imagery.”

 

Will closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, while Hannibal manages to insinuate a hand under his shirt, touching his skin with slightly damp fingers. 

 

“You are attracted to the idea. You want to consume me as much as I want to be consumed by you. Keeping a part of me inside of you and honoring my gift.”

 

“Sometimes I forget how good you are with words and how easy for me it is to fall for them...”

 

“You are just as good, you merely use your gift differently.”

 

Will kisses him hard, pulling him closer almost desperately, to feel the pressure of their bodies rubbing together: Hannibal is smiling against his lips, digging his nails into the small of his back until Will moans and bites him softly, licking his mouth like he's starving for more contact and can't stop seeking it out.

 

Hannibal is breathing hard when they pull away, with Will's hands sliding in his hair and scratching his neck; he looks so differently when he's less kept together than usual, still wearing his suits, but with something messy about him: it gives Will a glimpse of the beast he hides inside, the one who's always hungry and that could devour him, swallow him whole if it wanted. And of the frail shadow of humanity he can still feel inside of him; it's an almost unbearable thought, how much of himself Hannibal allowed him to see, how deep his trust runs and how much Will craves for more.

 

Will thinks about kissing him with his mouth full of blood, about leaving bloody kiss on his skin, smearing it across his body and then lick it all off. Hannibal kisses him again, pressing their foreheads together, holding him.

 

It takes and incredible effort on his part to disentangle himself from that embrace: Will walks around the room, conscious of the predatory look in Hannibal's eyes, of his own desire for him.

 

“Ok, let's do it.”

 

He can't see Hannibal's smile, but still feels it on his skin and it burns, leaving a deep mark he knows he'll never be able to shake off.


	2. red right hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. So ok, I need to say a few things about this chapter: first of all, I've read all the books and I'm aware of Hannibal's backstory, this is just my possible take on it that would fit in show canon continuity. And I'm in love with Hannibal's scars, I just had to fit it in somewhere There's no mention of Mischa on purpose, Hannibal hasn't shared that part of his past with Will yet.  
> Also... he appears very vulnerable in this chapter and I'll leave it to you to decide if he's being honest or just playing with Will and his protector instinct.  
> Is he faking? We just don't know. But he truly loves Will; he's still an awful dick, but, you know, cannibals need after care too.  
> 2\. I have a tumblr ([murasakilecters](http://murasakilecters.tumblr.com/) ) so feel free to message me there if you feel like. I'd love it! ^^  
> 

Hannibal clears a whole weekend so no one will disturb them, and Will guiltily turns off his phone and leaves it at home so Jack will not be able to reach him: he spends the days that precede the event in a frantic state of anticipation, staring at the ceiling while he's in bed and trying to picture exactly how it'd go, how it would feel to look at Hannibal extracting his own blood and knowing what he'll do with it, what they'll both do with it.

 

There's a demon in his mind, the ghost of Hannibal's desire that lingers in it and follows him around like a shadows, attaching itself to his bones and skin like a shroud. And he can't stop reverting in those thoughts or let them go, he always comes back to them: to the way Hannibal holds him, presses him against the mattress, the look in his eyes, the hunger he sees on his face, in the way his mouth twists and he bares his teeth while he's deep inside him.

 

It takes a while for him to admit to himself that he wants this too, just as badly as Hannibal does, that the idea of keeping a part of him inside his body forever, to honor him like that, is seductive in ways nothing else could ever be in a possessive and savage way: it's the need to consume him just like he did with Will that moves him.

 

And yet he still hesitates out of the front door for a moment, breathing slowly and with his eyes closed, trying to regulate his heartbeat.

 

He takes a long time on purpose to settle the dogs in the garage, petting them and allowing the animals to surround him with their simple adoration; Will feels oddly light headed, like he's not really there, but somewhere else, lost in thoughts that move too fast in his brain for him to focus on them coherently. It's a welcomed change to the cacophony that usually fills him: it would feel almost peaceful if it weren't for how tight his stomach feels.

 

The house is dark and quiet when he walk in, a light rain falling outside that promises far more to come, making the air electric and heavy in anticipation: the kitchen is the only lighted room, but Hannibal is nowhere to be found. Will stares at the empty blood sack, needle, bottle of antiseptic and tourniquet already placed on the counter for a few minutes before touching them lightly, almost like he's afraid to shatter the atmosphere around him with a harsh movement.

 

It's really happening, he thinks vaguely and is surprised when a smile rises to his lips almost without him noticing, because this is the most honest and open Hannibal will ever be with him, baring himself in a deeper and more intimate way than he ever did before.

 

When the man appears on the doorstep, Will is still smiling, awkwardly shifting his weight from one leg to the other; Hannibal returns the smile, before finishing the preparations, moving around him quietly.

 

“I apologize for not welcoming you at your arrival.”

 

“I'm sure we are way past any kind of formalism. Do you... I can give you some privacy if you want, wait in the drawing room or in the garage with the dogs.”

 

Hannibal stops right in front of him and looks genuinely surprised by his words.

 

“Why would I want you to do that? Why wouldn't I want you here?”

 

Will gets closer and puts a hand on his shoulder, looks at Hannibal like he wants to sink his teeth into his neck more than anything; his smile widens, exposing his teeth a little, giving him a look that would look dangerous to anyone but him.

 

He shrugs in the end and takes a couple of steps back.

 

“I don't know how you want to do this. Of course I will stay if you want me to. I just wanted to be considerate.”

 

Hannibal takes a deep breath and Will can't help staring at him, at the way his muscles flip under the cotton of the white shirt he's wearing, can't help imaging it stained with blood. He sits down on one of the two chairs prepared, his right arm laying on the surface like an invitation of some sort, and Will swallows nervously without even knowing why, like there has been a sudden shift in the air around them and it feel suffocating, like he's cornered there and there's no way out for either of them.

 

“I want you to take the blood and I want to watch you doing it: slipping the needle inside my vein and wait with me while the blood sack is filled.”

 

The proverbial numbness that follows a big revelation hits him right in the stomach, leaving him gaping with his mouth slightly open for a few seconds.

 

“You don't mean it. I can't do it, I've never... I've never done this before. I can't.”

 

His voice is hoarse and rough, but he doesn't flinch or look away; and neither does Hannibal.

 

“It's very easy, I can guide you step by step. It's perfectly safe.”

 

He looks so calm, so perfectly chiseled in an unshakable assumption that he will do what he wants, that his desires will not be denied no matter how much Will protests at first: he wants to punch him, kiss him, bite him hard enough to draw blood and pull away a chunk of still warm and beating flesh, hurt him until he'll finally get a reaction out of him that will not be this compassed and self entitled serenity.

 

“Why would you want me to do this? If this is about your... fantasy, then I have no part in it! I don't understand...”

 

His words die in his mouth when Hannibal swiftly opens the cuff of his sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow, exposing his forearm... and the thin scar that runs on it, following the veins underneath.

 

Will stares at it for a whole minute before he manages to convince himself that it's truly there and not a product of his imagination; and right after he asks himself how did he manage to miss it for so long, why he never noticed it before.

 

It feels thick, but old under his fingers when he touches it; Hannibal doesn't move at all, keeps staring at him intently, waiting for his reaction. The shadow of a smile appears on his lips when Will undoes the other cuff to find another identical scar.

 

“How did you get these?”

 

He sounds surprisingly steady, keeping his feelings bottled inside him and instead sits down on the chair prepared for him, still holding on to Hannibal's arms, but not looking at him, not now.

 

“The possible options aren't many.”

 

“Either somebody did it to you... or you did this to yourself.”

 

“And which one do you think it is?”

 

Will closes his eyes only for a moment, inhaling the aseptic absence of any scent around him, clinging to the heat of Hannibal's body instead, trying to catch a clearer glimpse of the truth the man is slowly showing him.

 

“What I think is that you wanted me to see them now, you made sure I never noticed them before, because the moment of the reveal had to be perfect.”

 

“I put a lot of efforts in concealing them from you, yes.”

 

“I don't know if I should feel honored because you're sharing this with me, or insulted because of all the lies and manipulations you used to get us here. Probably both, I can't have one without the other when it comes to you. I accepted that a long time ago.”

 

“Yet you stay, and you keep accepting my, as you put it before, moments of honesty, sometimes at the expenses of everything else.”

 

“I've never been good at self preservation.”

 

Hannibal smiles and sighs slowly when Will lets go of his arm and finally looks at him again.

 

“You did not answer my question: how do you think I got these scars?”

 

Will doesn't want to answer, because what he'll say will hang between them like a sword and bring them even closer: he'll know, he'll let Hannibal know that he knows and the pressure of that responsibility sometimes feels too much, too heavy and suffocating. He wants to kiss him, kiss his scars, sink his teeth deep into them and lick the mark he'll leave, dig his nails until he'll open them again.

 

He imagined it all before, but now it'll have a complete different meaning: now he'll be making his scars his own, mark Hannibal erasing the old ones: it'll be almost like owning him.

 

“You did it to yourself. The wounds are precise and clean, like all your cuts, but... the hand was still immature. You were young, very young... it was a lifetime ago. Maybe that's why you don't consider them self inflicted. The person who had it in him to do this, the... you... who did this died a very long time ago. And all it left behind are ashes and scars.”

 

Hannibal's gaze is suddenly hard, like he wasn't expecting to hear these words coming from Will's mouth, not so soon at least, hitting him while he was not ready. Will reverts in his own sudden power, in the way he can dig long forgotten feelings out of him, how he can hit always in the right spots and discover something new and precious about Hannibal Lecter, about the millions of ghosts that inhabit him. He can feel them under his skin, lets them fill him and make him forget everything else.

 

I could kill you right now, his eyes say, with a desperation that makes him smile, that drives him to take his hand again and hold it, because Hannibal is suddenly exposed in front of him like he probably never intended himself to be and Will, despite everything, feel an immediate need to cover him, to cover the wound he sees there; it's easy to forget that even the apex predator has a soft underbelly, and when he's reminded of it, a fucked up instinct to protect him takes over.

 

After a long time, the man's eyes soften.

 

“Sometimes I forget his deep you can see, how much you can notice with just one quick look, especially about me.”

 

“You shouldn't be so careless then, so sure of yourself. You should guard your secrets better.”

 

Hannibal smiles at that, and gently caresses his cheek with his other hand.

 

“Maybe a part of me wants you to see.”

 

“Will you tell me about the scars?”

 

“I will, but not now. First, you must do what I asked you. Quid pro quo, yes?”

 

Will shakes his head with a smile on his lips, relaxes and reaches out to grab the tourniquet and the needle, swallowing thickly while he ties it around Hannibal's arm, muscles darting under his skin, and he can feel every movement while his fingers are pressing on it.

 

He thinks again about teeth mauling flesh, blood filling his mouth, nails scraping away gore and Hannibal smiling at him like's proud.

 

“You always win in the end.”

 

“Or maybe none of us does. Maybe none of us ever will. Or maybe we both do somehow, and we take our small victories when we find them.”

 

He doesn't reply, his eyes fixated on Hannibal's arm, on the thick veins on the surface of it, on the scar on the forearm, on his closed and hard fist; then the man takes his hand and places the needle in it again, running his fingers through his hair and pulling him slightly close so he can kiss him, only once, before letting him go and settling back onto the chair.

 

Will breathes in deeply, and tries not think of blood pacts and deals with the devil, while he pierces Hannibal's arm, while they both of them watch the brief venous spray fill the tube and then thick red liquid starting to flow into the bag.

 

\-----

 

Will stares at the empty sink with a glass of wine in his hand and his mind elsewhere, trying to breathe slowly and recover some control over himself. The kitchen has a faint scent of antiseptic now, and no matter how light it is, it grabs his lungs and makes it hard for him to stay focused. Even drinking seems to be too much of an effort, yet he empties the glass and fills it again.

 

Staying still is good, keeps him grounded and balanced, gives his mind time to catch up on the events and internalize them: Will sees himself pressing his lips against Hannibal's wound after removing the needle, sucking gently, still tastes blood in his mouth even now.

 

It sends a thrill of pleasure down his spine, to remember the almost wild look in Hannibal's eyes, his pupils dilated and wide, his breath slightly accelerated because of the blood loss. He knows they took too much, more than they needed to, but in that moment and even now, he can't bring himself to care, because the excitement of the act still fills him.

 

He takes the glass with him when he goes into the pantry and then down the trap door that takes to the basement, and drinks the liquid left in it in one shot before opening the big fridge in the corner.

 

Will shivers in the cold room, shivers when he hovers over the open fridge and takes one of the pieces of meat stored in it in his hands, noticing how firm and calm they are while he does it: animal meat, he ignores what kind, but by now he knows the difference and knows it's not human.

 

A part of him almost wants to believe this means something, that this is not just a treat Hannibal is slipping him to make him do what he wants, but the rest reminds himself that there's something crooked and wounded inside Hannibal Lecter and that giving up this, killing, won't mean fixing or changing him. He knows that no matter what he does, some things will never change about him, he'll remain a fearful beast that will never be tamed, he'll remain toxic and dangerous.

 

But he feels calmer now, the cold sips into him and he breathes it in, lets it surround him, numb him like an anesthesia. He closes the fridge and goes back upstairs.

 

Hannibal is lying on the couch in the drawing room, an IV of fluids in his left arm, dozing off and looking more vulnerable than Will has ever seen him before. He wonders how many people Hannibal has allowed to see him like this, thinks of the boy he must've been when he cut his wrists and hoped to die, tries to imagine him, but can't, it's too far away from him and there has been too much in between for him to see clearly.

 

He sits next to him and just observes him for a while, without touching him, trying to come to terms with what he feels towards him, with how different Hannibal can look in the blink of an eye: one second he's a predator, ready to maul and devour, the next he shows him the deep, still bleeding wounds he keeps hidden inside his soul.

 

Everything Hannibal does is a choice, he kills and destroys because he wants to, because the thrill he feels when he does it it's hard to give up, and Will doesn't even know if he'll ever want him to be different from the man he is now: it's terrifying, how much he can accept without having to close his eyes and pretend not to know.

 

Perhaps it's because Hannibal in an unapologetic monster that Will feels so safe when he's with him, why he can rest his head on his shoulder and let him wrap his arms around him: he's the worst and best thing that could ever happen to him; Hannibal can make him happier than he has ever been and destroy him right after.

 

There's something poetic about it, something easy to understand, no matter how complicated they both are.

 

Hannibal's eyes open suddenly and he jerks away from him when Will touches his arm, and for a moment he doesn't seem to recognize him, and there's a feral light in his gaze that instead of frighten him, makes Will hold on tighter to him until he relaxes again and his control returns.

 

“I'm not used to this...”

 

“To what, Will?”

 

“To see you so... human and vulnerable, I guess. Maybe it's easier for me to imagine you have no weaknesses and feelings, makes it more bearable to deal with the side of you that kills. And when I have to come to terms with your... humanity and it makes me want to protect you instead of trying to hate the monster you are. It's all fucked up.”

 

Hannibal doesn't say anything, looks at him while Will checks the IV and tries not to imagine the bandage on his other arm, now covered by his shirt.

 

“I have never pretended to be inhuman, not with you at least. My cruelty has never been anything else: I'm curious, merciless and self absorbed in my own preservation. There's nothing more human than that.”

 

“I know, but it's still not something you let me see everyday. And you like to confuse the idea people have of you, just as much as you do like to try to frighten me in every way you can, because I can see the worst of you, and you like to see that I don't run away. It's just a lot to take in, that you can be terrible and vulnerable at the same time.”

 

Will allows him to caress his face again, fingers sliding through his hair, before his hand settles on the curve of his neck.

 

“I saw the fridge in the basement. What's in it... or what isn't in it, I should say.”

 

“And?”

 

His voice sounds tired and Will suddenly notices all the wrinkles and scars on his face, how expressive it can become when he wants it to; his smile is soft, sleepy, almost helpless, makes him want to do things to him he never thought about before: riding him hard enough to see him snap, letting Hannibal fuck him until they'll both pass out.

 

He has no idea how much is genuine and how much a constructed and carefully chiseled act.

 

“I won't ask you anything about it, I don't want to know anything. I don't want you to make promises you may be forced to break or lie to me.”

 

“I promised never to lie to you again.”

 

“That's why I don't want to know. Sometimes you give me reason to hope something... could happen, that I could make something happen inside of you. And I don't want that, I don't want that kind of responsibility, I don't want that to depend on me and what I do. I want you to stay who you are, I want to know who you are. I want you to let me see you slowly, to let me discover you. And if something inside you should change... I want to see that too. But don't make promises, don't try to force feed me more illusions. Because I don't need them. I need honesty from you, just that.”

 

“You told me you know I don't intend to stop; I could be just playing you right now.”

 

“If you're or not, it'll be your own choice: you decide to kill or you decide not to, that part of your design has nothing to do with me and never will. And if the fridge will be filled again of human flesh in couple of day or never again, it'll be on you. You know I'll stay no matter what, the decision will never depend on me. At least you're honest in that.”

 

Hannibal doesn't say anything: after what feels like a long time, he just nods and holds his hand even harder, almost hurting him, but he still holds it back, lowering himself on him to kiss him, biting his lips and sucking on them until they're red.

 

“What do you want? Right now, at this very moment. After you've seen so much of me, after I have seen so much of you, what is it that you truly want?”

 

His voice digs into his skin and Will sighs when Hannibal slips a hand under his shirt: there is so much he could say, but the words are stuck in his throat and none of them wants to come out. 

 

He could tell Hannibal how much he wishes he could hate him sometimes, how angry at him he is because everything they have is built on foundations of bones and blood and death, wants to tell him about his guilt and his pain and how he wishes he could leave him, even though that feeling lasts only a moment. And wants to tell him that he has never been happier his whole life, that every time Hannibal touches him, he feels whole and complete, he feels home; that he wants to keep close to his heart even the darkest parts of him and never let him go, shield him and guard the soft and frail parts of him only he can see.

 

Maybe Hannibal can read it all inside him, because he smiles and in that smiles, Will knows that he'll never feel safe ever again elsewhere, that he belongs in that clean space among the carnage Hannibal has made for him inside himself.

 

“I want to have dinner with you. I want to read for you while you rest and get some of your strength back. And then I want you to fuck me.”

 

Will wonders if it's because of moments like these if he stays with him: for the honest look in Hannibal's eyes, that never tries to hides his darkness, for the way the man looks at him sometimes like there's nothing else in the world but him.

 

Or if it's because he wants to see how this ends and can't let go of him no matter how much it can hurt.

 

Hannibal kisses him again and Will breathes him in, tasting death in his mouth.

 

\-----

 

Will rides him slowly in bed that night, keeping him pinned down on the bed, his nails digging into the soft skin of his shoulders and arms while he moves up and down on his cock, pushing him deeper and deeper inside him with every movement. Sometimes he stops completely, his palms flat on Hannibal's chest, feeling his heart beat under them, his lungs expanding, his body alive and warm; Will moans when the man scratches his forearms to make him move again, but stays still a while longer, just to see him bite his lips and a dangerous expression come and pass quickly on his face.

 

Hannibal's eyes are so wide, humid and unfocused, and it's almost too much to look at him like this, so vulnerable and raw, completely exposed and with all his defenses knocked down: Will kisses his scars, sucks on them until there are red bruises on them and Hannibal grabs him hard by the hair to pull him away from them, kissing him until they're both breathless, and still holds him hard, like he doesn't want to let him go or can't.

 

There's blood dripping from the wound on his arm and Will stares into his eyes for a long moment, before he lowers himself on him to lick it off, smiling to himself when Hannibal groans and his nails attack his hips, leaving marks that will be bright red soon.

 

“You look so good, you feel so good... I want to keep you inside me forever...”

 

His voice is strained, but he can't stop talking, keeps whispering nonsense in Hannibal's ears while the man holds him by his waist; Will keeps moving on him and feels full, blissfully full and the thought of letting him go is unbearable. 

 

When Hannibal pushes him off of him to make him lay down on the bed, Will smiles at the wild look on his face and kisses him slowly while he slides back inside of him, resting his head against his shoulder and biting him softly. Sometimes the realization of how much of Hannibal only he can see hits him all at once in moments like these, where there's no veil between them and he exposes himself for Will, even though he's still not sure how much of it is honest or conscious.

 

It takes so long to be able to open a door inside the mind of Hannibal Lecter, with so many more after that waiting to be discovered and cracked, and Will is not sure he'll ever be able to see the whole truth of him, no matter how deep he digs. Hannibal looks at him after a while, thrusting hard into him and holding him down, kissing him hard so Will can't say anything at all, can't ask all the questions the man can see inside of him, and he kisses back, fingers pulling his hair until Hannibal moans in pain and Will sees that a few strands came off.

 

“I want to see so much more of you... I want to see everything. Show me, show me everything... promise you will...”

 

When Hannibal comes, he's never loud, suffocates his groans and moans against his neck and while he holds him through it, Will kisses his temple and massages his back, feeling light headed, full and empty, knowing how much power he has, knowing how to use it. And Hannibal is conscious of how deep under his skin Will truly is, embraces the feeling and him, wrapping both of them around himself like an armor.

 

He kisses Hannibal and licks his lips, every touch sounding more and more like a promise.

 

\-----

 

“How old where you when you tried?”

 

Hannibal lazily opens his eyes and stares at Will for a few seconds before sighing and trying not to let himself slip into slumber. Will's tracing the scars with the tip of his finger, almost absently, but knowing that Hannibal is conscious of every touch.

 

“You have no intention of letting this go for tonight, have you?”

 

“You're so vulnerable and unfocused right now... I must take advantage of your weaknesses.”

 

Will smiles when Hannibal shakes his head, but pulls him closes anyway, allowing him to lie half on top of him.

 

“I was fourteen years old, about to turn fifteen.”

 

“I can't even imagine you at that age, all I see is you as you are now, no matter how hard I try, I hit a wall I just cannot penetrate. You must've been so different...”

 

“I was. Like you said, I was a different person, and that person is dead. There's almost nothing left of it. Only a distant memory.”

 

“And these scars.”

 

Hannibal caresses his back, breathes slowly under him: his eyes are distant, like he's somewhere else reviving what happened to him, imaging it all happening again inside his mind, behind his closed eyelids. Will kisses his neck, then climbs on top on him, sitting there and looking down on him while Hannibal gently strokes his thighs and tries to smile, managing only a faint grin.

 

“Tell me what happened. Why you did it. Describe it to me, let me see it.”

 

The moment hangs between them like a sword, filling him with uneasiness: he feels awkward in his own skin, Hannibal's eyes piercing him almost cruelly, even though Will is the one who's probing and digging into him. 

 

“It was a fairly common reasoning that brought me to the point of wanting to end my own life, there was nothing special about it: I was a fourteen years old boy who had no one in the world, no family, no means, no future. The orphanage where I lived was a dreadful place that was quick at sucking innocence and hope out of me: life there truly felt meaningless.

 

“And then one afternoon, during a very harsh winter, I was walking back to the orphanage from the factory we were sent to work at after the lessons, and I saw a homeless man dead in the snow. No one paid attention to him except me. I stared at him for a very long time. I remember his face so vividly I could draw it for you even now after almost thirty years.

 

“I realized in that moment that that was a possible, if not probable, future for me: I could have been that man. Maybe one day I was going to be that man, eyes empty and dead, with a boy just like the one I was back then staring at my corpse.

 

“The idea of not being able to have control over my future, over my life, was intolerable to me, as was the idea of my existence going unnoticed and quickly forgotten. Life and death had already taken so much from me, I wasn't going to let them have that too, my own death, my own life. Those were mine and mine alone, no one had any right to them: not even God.”

“So you decided to take the matter into your own hands?”

 

Hannibal measures the words carefully, thinks about what he's going to say for a long time before speaking, his hands moving on Will's skin in what seems to be an almost unconscious movement.

 

“I was different back then, that is true, but perhaps not that different. Control was something that had been taken away from me for many, many years in various and cruel ways; I was constantly reminded that I was nothing more than a name and a number in a little, dirty orphanage in the middle of nowhere, that that was all I was. The only thing that truly belonged to me was my life and I was going to dispose of it at my own terms.”

 

Will inhales deeply: Hannibal's face is set in stone, but there's a tired light in his eyes, wrinkles and scars exalted by the angle of the lamp on the bedside.

 

“You wanted to see what would happen. You bargained with fate and circumstances and the bet was your own life: the universe was either going to save you or let you die. Either way it would have been by your hand, so you would've won.”

 

Hannibal nods softly, smiling for the first time since they started to talk.

 

“I stole a razor from one of the older boys and went into the dining hall, set on one of the benched like for a meal. I waited there for a while, listening to the silence around me, waiting. And when nothing happened, I slit my wrists, watched the blood pour out of the wounds and onto the wooden table. I couldn't even tell the color of it, the room was completely dark; I could only smell it and feel it. And I waited there to see if I would live or die. In the end, obviously, I lived. They kept me in isolation for almost three months, separated from the other children so I would not infect them with my dangerous tendencies and ideas. And in those months I became someone else, I evolved and adapted to a new skin, a skin the bore the scars you see now as a reminder of the boy I used to be and that I was no more.”

 

His words hang between them for a long moment, almost stretching all around the room: then Will gently kisses him, and there's that usual unsettling smirk on his face when he pulls back.

 

“Do you feel sorry for me?”

Will snorts in reply.

 

“You were a child: no child deserves to go through all that, not even you.”

 

Hannibal closes his eyes and Will slides back on his side, his head resting on his chest. 

 

“Does this change your perception of me?”

 

“It certainly gives me another angle I can use to see you better; but... no. I don't think it changes anything. I know who you are now, the truth of the current you. Who you used to be is in the past and I cannot reach him, I can barely catch a glimpse of him through your words. And I think it's better this way: I know I shouldn't, but I like who you are now; I'm satisfied with that.”

 

“So am I when it comes to you: I enjoy exploring your past, probing behind your walls to see what will happen. But I wouldn't want you to be different from who you are.”

 

“Unless I decide to let you operate some changes in me, right?”

 

Hannibal smiles at him, but no more words come from him. He looks truly exhausted, and when the man closes his eyes and slowly slips into oblivion, Will doesn't disturb him; holds his hand instead, caresses his chest and his face as gently as he can, like he's seeing Hannibal as something precious and fragile for the first time and is not sure how to deal with it, how to deal with everything he learned about him and how this fits into his vision of their relationship.

 

Will feels like he's walking on thin ice, surrounded by snow and desolation, unsure which one of his steps will be the end of him: but he also know Hannibal's arms are there to catch him. At least he hopes so.

 

He falls asleep as well with his face buried against his skin and his mind almost painfully full.


	3. the texture of my blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! I hope you all enjoyed it and will be kind enough to leave me a comment.  
> If you have any questions, feel free to ask!

Hannibal has a set of strict routines that follows almost obsessively, little habits that Will has come to know as good as he does with his own: every time the man deviates from one of his rules and does something suddenly unpredictable in his daily life, he's left wondering how many surprises are still hidden inside of him, how many corners he still has to explore to see deep enough to find the truth of him.

 

“The dogs shouldn't be in kitchen.”

 

When he turns towards him, Will sees that he's smiling, with three of his dogs moving around him, trying to catch little bits of the breakfast he's cooking. He knows Hannibal recognized his own speech patterns and intonation in his words and probably is proud of it. 

 

“One can make an exception once in a while; I will make sure to disinfect everything before I start cooking for tonight.”

 

“You walked my dogs, fed them, cared for them while I was still asleep, and allowed them in your kitchen. I'm dangerously close to trust you completely right now, serial murders or not.”

 

Hannibal stares at him for a long moment and then shakes his head, but doesn't look displeased by the ironic tone in his words.

 

Will tries to imagine how must they look like from the outside, with their odd domesticity that hides monsters and secrets no one else except them can see, wonders what people will think of them if they could, and realizes he can't even begin to picture it.

 

Probably because their relationships only makes sense to them and others wouldn't understand it even if they tried. 

 

Hannibal doesn't stop cooking to greet him, and the dogs follow him around like they're enchanted and seduced by him just as much as everybody else is; Will breathes in the scent of coffee, but cannot forget the blood he smelled in there the day before, can't forget how it felt to watch it pour out of Hannibal and keeps thinking about how it will taste like.

 

Marion comes to rest her head on his lap, while he sinks on one of the sofas in the corner; her fur is warm and familiar under his fingers, it helps him clear his head and focus on the present moment. He doesn't want to let his mind wander, not now: he wants to appreciate the peace between them, because he has no idea how long it'll last.

 

“You look pale; are you sure you're ok?”

 

“I gave up a considerable amount of blood less than twenty four hours ago, some paleness and weakness have to be expected. But I believe I will be alright, no need for you to worry too much.”

 

“What are you going to do... with it?”

 

Hannibal fills both of them a cup of coffee and then goes to sit next to him, not looking at Will while he drinks his own, lost in his thoughts far away from him for a while; Winston brushes against his legs and then settles at his feet, but Hannibal doesn't even seem to notice.

 

“Of course I have many different ideas, all equally challenging and interesting: the upside of this experiment is that I don't have to limit myself, there will always be the chance for more attempts in the future, if we decide to. But the first meal has to have its own special weight...”

 

Will curls more on the sofa, intently staring at him.

 

“So I've decided to prepare an Italian dessert called “Sanguinaccio”, usually made with dark chocolate and pig's blood. I had the luck to try it a few years ago, before it became almost impossible to find in its original recipe. I believe something sweet may offer a less threatening approach.”

 

“Do you think I'm still threatened by the idea of eating something prepared with your blood?”

 

“I believe there's still a small dose of immediate disgust in both of us towards this idea, no matter how much I am seduced by the thought of it, for how long I have imagined it, and how willing to participate you may think you are. I'm considering the easier way to overcome it.”

 

Will takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a while, letting the silence fill the space between them.

 

“Can I ask you something? About... what you told me yesterday?”

 

Hannibal's face twists unpleasantly at the idea just for a second, before he sighs and then nods, still looking away from Will.

 

“What did you think about while you were bleeding out? Did you start to panic and considered calling for help? Were you scared?”

 

“I was, in a sense: I felt nervous and agitated at first, overwhelmed by what I had decided to do. The darkness was thick all around me and the razor was cold and painful against my skin. Sadly in the end I don't seem to recall much of what happened anyway, all I can remember is that I was suddenly very aware of my own body, of the blood it contained and that I was spilling, of my heart racing more and more frantically to cope with the loss, of the sweat of my skin despite the cold. I thought about the animals I had slaughtered in my life, how similar to them I was then, blood pooling on a table where meals were consumed, like I was offering myself for one. But... what I really enjoyed was the idea of owning life and death, of making all the decisions that concerned it. That feeling stayed with me my whole life. Oddly enough, I think I discovered how much murder appealed to me while I was trying to kill myself.”

 

Will can see it now, the image of Hannibal as a boy with his wrists slashed open, hands and arms red with blood, growing paler while his body died around him: he almost wants to reach out into his vision and touch him, clamp his hands hard around his wounds to help him, to stop the bleeding and tell him that it doesn't have to be like this, that he has to live, that he can still do so much more. 

 

But another part of him wants to hold the boy in his arms while he wastes away, rub his back, kiss his forehead and tell him that it'll be over soon, dig his fingers into the gashes and lick the blood away from his fingers, feed it back to Hannibal as well before he finally closes his eyes forever.

 

“You felt terrified. And then you felt powerful. You were your own first victim and you discovered how much you enjoyed the thought of ending a life while you were trying to take your own.”

 

“Poetic in an extremely brutal, but beautiful way, don't you think?”

 

“Seeing the world the way you do, can be at the same time the most fascinating and terrifying experience. Sometimes I fear I'll never see the light again if I slip too deep into your mind; and yet I can't stop myself from doing it; from trying to dig into you and explore all the rooms in your palace, even the darkest ones.”

 

“Isn't it almost cathartic? Living your own darkness vicariously through mine?”

 

“They're different kinds of darkness. I don't have your desperate nihilism or your anger, your desire to bring down every divinity you can think of; my own is very different, personal and raw in ways yours will never be. But it... helps to know I don't have to pretend to be fine or normal around you, that I don't have to be careful. And that I don't have to lie about how much I hate what you've done to me, and how much I hate the fact that I've never been so... at peace like I am when I am with you. We are really fucked up, maybe that's what makes us perfect for each other.”

 

Hannibal has a pleased half smile on his face when Will looks at him.

 

“We have lived in such different worlds for so long and there's still so much space between us: it's astonishing how alike we are at the core despite all this. I feel closer to you than I've felt to another person in a very long time; but I also feel threatened by you, by your insight on me, by the strength of your morality. I think my life would be much easier and safer and balanced if I killed you, and probably yours would be too of you killed me. And yet here we are, sharing something we know we cannot share with anyone else, uniting our solitudes and building something over the destruction we created.”

 

“Fate and circumstances again, like always with you: you gambled with me as much as you did with your own life.”

 

Will returns the smile, allowing Hannibal to cover his hand with his own, in a gesture that has an unusual tenderness for the two of them, especially when he's covered in bite marks from the night before and can see the ones he made imprinted on Hannibal's skin. The pressure is warm and comforting: he has the hand of a surgeon and at the same time the hand of a killer and Will wants to hold it close to his heart and kiss it no matter which one it is, press his lips on every finger, suck filth and blood away from it and never let it go.

 

Winston chooses that moment to crawl on Hannibal's lap with an old and tattered ball in his mouth, waving his tail: for one, extremely long moment, Will is sure something terrible will happen and shatter the peace between them; Hannibal could easily grab Winston's neck and break it in one swift motion and he would be powerless to stop him, could strangle the dogs or kick him away. 

 

But Hannibal does nothing of the sort: his gelid and slightly irritated expression softens to simple indifference after a few seconds, and he runs a hand through the dog's fur, taking the ball with the other. 

“Now it's not time to play, Winston. Later perhaps. Down now, good.”

 

Will didn't realize he was holding his breath until he exhales loudly, relaxing again against the soft fabric behind him.

 

“Were you worried about what I was going to do to Winston?”

 

“I'm always worried about what you're going to do. It's an integral part of a life with you. Paired with a perennial sense of danger and impending bloodshed.”

 

“You enjoyed spilling my blood well enough yesterday. You liked the idea of hurting me very much, it was plain enough, even though you tried to hide it.”

 

Winston barks happily under Hannibal's hands and the man doesn't push him away; Will drinks in the sight and sears it into his mind. Buster comes poking at his leg, barking loudly to get his attention, and Hannibal picks him up, more as a gesture of good faith reserved to him that out of genuine desire to do it. But Will doesn't have the energy to argue about that now.

 

“I fantasize about killing many people and often, even the ones I love and care about. I imagined murdering my own father when I was a teenager: granted, I didn't like him very much, but that was not the reason why I did it, not only at least. Blood and violence found me when I was very young, long before you did: they're seared into me, a part of who I am. You didn't put those desires inside me, they were always there. What you did was making me realize that my imagination is not a threat to my sanity and my thoughts don't have to define my actions. But yeah, I do imagine to hurt you, to kill you. And I like it. Just like you enjoy the idea of killing and hurting me. It doesn't mean we ever will do any of that.”

 

Hannibal allows the dog to lick his open palm, a soft, almost proud laugh slipping past his lips at Will's words; but then he becomes serious again and Will can feel the edges of unspoken questions behind that look.

 

“Do you want to tell me? About your father?”

 

“Payback for your revelations?”

 

“If you wish to interpret it this way, yes.”

 

Will shrugs and closes his eyes, images from the past flooding his mind and sending unpleasant shivers down his spine, like he's suddenly submerged in icy water and struggles not to drown.

 

“There isn't much to say: he wasn't fit to be a father and I wasn't easy to handle even as a kid. He tried, I don't fault him for failing. Not anymore. I guess I hated him for a while, while I was younger, and I loved him as well. Now... I'm not sure what I feel for him.”

 

“Did he ever abuse you?”

 

“No, he was just a regular, neglectful drunk, for which I suppose I should be grateful, all things considered. He barely spoke, barely acknowledged my presence in the house or in his life in general. He fed me, kept me clothed, gave me the little things I asked for when he had money to do it, but nothing more than that. No real... affection, or paternal love. Probably should've given me up for adoption after my mother left him, since he had little interest in taking care of me.”

 

“But something changed, something slipped into the apathy of your relationship with him and tainted it with violence and hatred.”

 

Will breathes deeply, in and out, while invisible needles sink into his lungs and rip them apart: Hannibal is trying to coax words and long hidden truths out of him, and he knows that he can only resist for so long before giving in. 

 

Because he wants to tell him, even though he's afraid of exposing himself further in front of him, pulling back his skin and show the holes hidden under it, allowing Hannibal's fingers to dig inside them to find out what hides there: he wants to tell him because he knows that Hannibal alone can understand how he feels and felt without judging him.

 

“When I was thirteen, he locked me out of the house: it was December and it was fucking cold by Louisiana standards. Yet he completely forgot about me, forgot I was studying at the library all day, and just... went to sleep without caring. I tried to call for him, but he didn't hear. I didn't know where to go, or what to do, I was scared shitless and there was no one I could turn to, no one that could help me. So I just went to sleep in one of the boats he was fixing. Of course I didn't sleep at all, I was too afraid, too aware of everything around me. And I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened, about how easy it had been for him to forget I existed. I'm not sure he would've cared if I had died.”

 

Hannibal waits expectantly for him to continue, a hungry look in his eyes, a predator feeding on his past traumas, while outside it starts raining and the rest of the dogs flood the kitchen from the open garage door, moving restlessly around them: Will focuses on them for a moment, on Marion's fur still under his hands, on Winston curled at Hannibal's feet while Buster rests on his lap. He wants to scream his lungs out until there won't be a sound left in his throat, because the contrast between the peaceful image of Hannibal with his dogs around him and what he knows he's capable of doing it's almost too much.

 

But the man holds his hand again, pressing hard on it until Will focuses on him again: other people would feel pain, but the contact calms him instead and he breathes slowly, cold sweat all over him.

 

“I was livid, out of my mind with rage: I wanted to hurt him so he would notice me, so he would remember me, that I was alive, that I existed. I was his son, he should've been there for me, should've taken care of me and he didn't, never, not even once, he didn't give a shit about me and I just snapped, something inside my mind broke in that moment: I imagined hitting him with a rock and spraying his brain all over our dirty and cheap floor, cutting him to pieces, ripping him apart with a knife, just... doing something to him. Something he couldn't ignore.”

 

“And how did you feel after?”

 

He laughs bitters and massages his temples, a headache already building behind his eyes.

 

“Disgusted and terrified: it made me physically ill, I was in bed for three days after that night, vomiting and shaking and feeling like shit, and I still couldn't get that thrill of pleasure and power I had felt out of my system. It slipped into me like a virus and there was no way to get rid of it. Not anymore. My father was... different from that day on, more thoughtful I guess, tried to fix it. But it was too late, whatever relationship we could've had was ruined at that point. There was too much bad blood, too much I couldn't forgive him.”

 

Hannibal suddenly grabs his hair, pulling hard until Will moans in approval and nods at him, feeling oddly lighter after letting it all out in the open. Like he can breathe more easily.

 

“And how do you feel when you think about killing me?”

 

Will relaxes and smiles at that, holds his hand again, tangling their fingers together.

 

“I feel powerful, elated, electrified, I know you would consider ever wound a gift, an honor I am bestowing upon you. You'd make sure I loved every moment and every blow. Thinking about killing you is... reassuring. It reminds me who I am and who you are. I think I would feel safe like never before covered in your blood.”

 

Hannibal smiles at him so fondly he can't help believing him and cutting out that smile to hold it inside his heart, safely away where no one else can see it or take it away from him.

 

“Good, keep that feeling close to your heart, drink it up and bask into its intensity. Never forget how it fills you and how it keeps you warm and alive.”

 

Will watches Hannibal putting Buster down and then getting up, filling more bowls with dog food and then returning to him after a moment with two full plates; they eat in silence for a while, Will stealing glances at the firm expression on his face, remembering how he had light up for him while he was telling him his story. He wants to ask him if he ever thought about killing his parents before they died, who was the first person he imaged to kill, how he felt afterward. But Hannibal interrupts his train of thoughts by speaking first.

 

“Is your father still alive?”

 

The implication in his words is so clear it makes Will smile in reaction to the dismissive tone the man has.

 

“Why? Are you thinking about killing and eating him?”

 

“I'm not saying I am, but suppose this was the case, what would your answer be?”

 

“Do you think I'd let you kill my father?”

 

Will is more intrigued by what the man will say than by the what this means, the hanging threat it leaves between them, like a sword ready to fall on his father's head, by what the idea of directing Hannibal's kills would mean for both of them.

 

“I think you know I wouldn't do anything to him if you said “no”, and I think you like how that makes you feel, knowing how much conscious power you can have over me and my actions.”

 

Will nods absently.

 

“He died five years ago, when I was still a cop, hepatic cirrhosis. And... I know. I know I have power over you, just like you do over me. It's part of the reason why I'm here: we went through so much, I feel like we are even now.”

 

Hannibal nods and Will notices how his shoulders relax and his whole body loses the sudden stiffness that had grabbed him during their exchange, like he's pleased by his answer.

 

“A painful way to die, hepatic cirrhosis. Did you watch over him while he was wasting away in his little hospital bed? Stinking of death and illness and corruption? Did you drink in the sight and the smell?”

 

“I was with him during his last days, yeah. He had no one else. I was his son: despite everything I was still his son. I did my duty towards him. I watched him shrink and die, moaning in his sleep for ghosts long gone. I took care of him even though I'm not sure he would've done the same for me.”

 

“You were very generous, Will. Always the better man, even in that circumstance, where no one would have fault you if you had displayed hate and coldness; did you forgive him on his deathbed?”

 

Will sighs loudly.

 

“He didn't ask, and I didn't say anything. He was unconscious most of the time anyway. It was a long time ago, no reason to dwell on it.”

 

Hannibal nods at him and Will reaches out and kisses him, tasting the food in his mouth, licking his lips, allowing Hannibal to place deep and needy kisses on his neck before pulling away again. The man caresses his face, pure care and softness in his features, hiding the pleasure he feels when he pokes at Will's wounds and Will holds him, holds them together to fill every empty space that exists between them.

 

They finish their breakfast in silence, the dogs gathered all around them like a shield.

 

\-----

 

Watching Hannibal cooking never stopped being a beautiful and entertaining spectacle, not even after Will discovered the content of their meals: and it has a whole new meaning now, while he's curled in his usual chair and observes him with a glass full of wine.

 

He belongs there, hovering over pans and burning flames, tending to the oven and tasting what he's preparing with measured care: Will knows next to nothing about cooking, but can tell how much effort all this must take, how much time and preparation he devotes to it; and when he knows that no one, except Hannibal maybe, was hurt to put food on their table, it makes it easier for him to relax.

 

“Can I do anything to help?”

 

“It's not necessary. Enjoy your wine. I have everything under control here.”

 

Will nods absently, wondering if he should go check on the dogs, safely tucked away in one of Hannibal's unused guestrooms after he complained about the garage being too cold, and take them out before dinner.

 

“How long before everything is ready?”

 

“About an hour, I assume. Mostly of waiting.”

 

He doesn't look up to him while he cooks, it's something Will learned along the way: he stays completely focused and he has to admit he likes it that way, because Hannibal's eyes can pierce through you and leave you exposed and naked and raw if you allow it, especially in dull and calm moments like this one.

 

“I think I'll take care of the dogs so we won't be disturbed later. Should I also change when I come back? Have you picked up what do you want me to wear?”

 

Hannibal stares for a minute at his baggy flannel shirt, only half tucked in his old and fading jeans, a picture that looks horrendously out of place in his perfect house, even when the man himself is only wearing a simply white shirt over gray slacks; it's still odd to see him like this, without his suits, without his armor, and Will likes to appreciate the sight when it presents itself.

 

“Perhaps only the shirt; I will do the same. I'd like to maintain an informal climate tonight, nothing too elaborate or constrictive.”

 

“I don't think I've ever seen you eat dinner without a three piece suit on.”

 

Will approaches him slowly, both hands spreading on the counter; Hannibal stops moving around for a second and looks right at him, his brown eyes shining in the bright kitchen.

 

“There's a first time for everything, I suppose. If that is what is going to shock you the most, I believe this evening will be a success then.”

 

He laughs at that, at the expression on Hannibal's face, at the sound of his words.

 

“It probably will, everything smells delicious.”

 

Hannibal maintains eye contact with him, then rises a hand to cup his face, sliding his thumb across his cheek, waiting to see if Will will lean into it, and smiles as well when he does.

 

“You look different, like something has been lifted off of you.”

 

“Do you like how that makes me look?”

 

Will shrugs, but Hannibal doesn't stop touching him.

 

“I'm never sure how much of it it's an act on your part, a way to manipulate me: my mind keeps telling me I can't trust... this, whatever “this” might be. But I know this is probably the most honest you've ever been with me since you told me who you really were. And yeah, I like it. I like seeing this in you, the imprint of your past. I know nothing will ever change who you became, but it'll help me understand how you got there.”

 

“And that would be enough for you? Understand me?”

 

Hannibal's hand is heavy and warm, smells faintly of rosemary: Will wants to lick every finger, wants to bite his wrist where his scar is, wants to devour him whole bit after bit, opening him up to read all his secrets right from his bones. He smiles at the thought and when Hannibal lets him go, he's the one who repeats the gesture, caressing his face, pressing his thumb on his lips and sighing when the man licks him faintly.

 

Will imagines how kissing him while killing him would feel like; how it'll be like to be kissed and killed at the same time by Hannibal.

 

“I think it's enough for you.”

 

\-----

 

The wine makes him feel light headed and prone to a smile that always feels foreign on his face, like his muscles are not used to it; Will rubs his arms without realizing, the fabric of his shirt familiar and pleasant against his skin, while he waits for Hannibal to return from the kitchen with their plates.

 

The soft classical music in the background fills the silence, but everything still feels too quiet, too relaxed and Will can't help the tension that creeps inside of him, the anticipation that rises as the minutes pass.

 

Hannibal appears in the room wearing a dark gray shirt under a dark red waistcoat, an almost soft expression on his face, lighted up by a welcoming smile that hides his teeth, but not the hungry shining in his eyes; he can't help to think about spilled blood, broken bones and exposed organs, about dead bodies and about what they'll consume later: he drinks more wine to wash the taste out of his mouth.

 

“What are we eating tonight?”

 

“Bistecca alla Fiorentina, another classic dish from the Italian cuisine in honor of our dessert. The meat is carefully cooked in order to allow it to remain very rare on the inside, but developing a crust on the outside to keep the juices in. Only very few kinds of Italian beef are considered good enough to be prepared like this; I made sure the butcher procured me only the best cuts.”

 

“If I didn't know you wouldn't risk contaminating my palate tonight, I'd ask you if we're eating the butcher.”

 

Hannibal stares at him for a long moment, an amused and wicked look in his eyes that feels dangerous and raw on his skin, like he's trying to figure out how to respond to him, to evaluate the weight of Will's words; it doesn't leave even while he smiles again and sits down next to him.

 

“Another time, perhaps.”

 

Will laughs out loud at that, because he's drunk, both on wine and on the atmosphere between them, on the tension rising up together with their expectations for the evening. He's afraid to let himself go too much, but at the same time can't help trying to get his mind off everything that has happened in the last few days. 

 

They eat in silence for a while and for the first time he can recall clearly, Will studies Hannibal during a meal, observing how he pauses for a moment to let the flavor of the bite he's taking sink into his nostrils before bringing it to his mouth, his hands holding knife and fork, the care he uses to cut the meat and the almost gelid and distant aura that surrounds him, a god consuming the offerings of his worshipers: he must be like that while he kills too, Will thinks absently, careful and merciless at the same time, wrapped in his own god complex so tightly everything else is forgotten.

 

He almost wishes he could see him.

 

“How's the meat?”

 

“Good. It's all very good, like everything you cook.”

 

Hannibal seems to be avoiding his eyes on purpose, keeping them fixated on his plate. Will wants to force him to look at him, to read into his eyes what he's thinking about. His head is fuzzy and his cheeks are warm because of the wine; and the only thing he can focus on seems to be Hannibal, like he's all that's real in the room: the feeling reminds him of his fevered days, when he was the only anchor in his life while his mind and his body were collapsing on themselves and playing tricks on him, before he figure out that Hannibal was at the same time the safe harbor and the weight dragging him down, the one who was allowing it to happen and continue and the one who made it stop.

 

Now he's the monster he sleeps with, the devil he donated his soul to more willingly than he had expected. It should feel like a betrayal of all he is and stands for; instead it's like coming home, wrapping himself in old and familiar clothes, inhaling their soothing scent. While ignoring how heavy and suffocating the air around him really is and the chain around his neck.

 

Will wonders if he looks at his victims with the cold and clinical look he gives him sometimes while they're fucking, when he has both hands around his neck squeezing hard down for a few seconds more than he should just to see what will happen, if he'll fight against his hold or wait to see what Hannibal will do to him. Will always leaves deep, red scratches on his hands and wrists, drawing blood sometimes, pushes him down on the bed and bites his neck until it's Hannibal the one trying to shake him off, a wild, angry and dangerous look in his eyes afterward.

 

Hannibal is not a good man, he knows it, Will remembers it even when he looks at him and catches a wounded expression on his face, like he's about to shatter in a million pieces if he doesn't hold him and keeps him together; he's the same man when he pets his dogs and when he stares at Will like he's trying to decide how to kill him, when he kisses him and genuinely means every gesture of affection reserved for him, and when he's butchering his new victim.

 

He accepted, but he didn't forget, and maybe that's why staying seems so easy: because he sees the scared little boy inside the merciless killer, the man and the devil, and knows that one doesn't exclude the other.

 

Will had expected Hannibal to openly gloat during their dinner, with that satisfied expression he always sports when he manages to manipulate him and to get what he wants; but the man looks absent, far away from their table, and makes no attempts to keep the conversation alive and going. He concentrates on the food, and almost never looks his way.

 

And Will realizes that he can't stand this silence, it's too heavy in his shoulders, with nothing of that blissful comfort he usually manages to find in it. It allows him to slip inside Hannibal, and he doesn't want that, not now when he's about to taste his blood.

 

“How was your orphanage? Tell me about it.”

 

Hannibal is quiet for a minute, chewing very slowly, knowing that Will's eyes are fixated on his mouth; takes a long sip of wine and then wipes his lips neatly.

 

“What do you wish to know?”

 

“Where was is it? Was it nice or... I don't know, whatever you want to tell me.”

 

He doesn't argue or tries to change the subject, just takes the time to think about what to say.

 

“It was far away from any major city, out in the countryside: when I was brought there, it took almost four hours by train to reach it. An ugly old building that had been used for that purpose probably for centuries. It was very cold at night, no matter the season, not particularly clean and housed far too many boys for its capacity. Small epidemics of influenza, measles or similar illnesses were almost the rule during the winter, as were lice and other common parasites. It's surprising how quickly you can get used to that, or to being underfed, to the constant hunger, and how fast you can forget what it's like to feel warm.”

 

His voice sounds distant and apathetic, like he's reading the phone book instead of recounting his traumatic childhood: he always seems to be able to put a firm distance between himself and what happened to him in the past, to distance himself from the different people he used to be at different stages of his life. But Will catches the pauses in his speech, how his breath falters for a moment and knows better.

 

“Where they kind to you? Or... did they ever beat you?”

 

“Corporal punishment was very common, yes, abundantly used to contain our exuberance, to tame our spirits, to chastise any wrongdoing or insubordination on our part, and of course there was no one we could protest to against it, no parents to run to crying. The lessons were long and mostly useless, even though the teachers did their best, and when I turned thirteen I was sent to learn a trade in the local factory and spent most of my afternoons there manufacturing low quality shoes. 

 

“Is this what you want to hear? How ugly and terrible my life there was? So you can convince yourself that my time there, and the deprivations, the abuses and the bullying I endured made me the way I am now? Allow me to spare both of us then: it didn't. What I did after, what I do now, was and is my own choice. I could've stopped, I had plenty of time and occasions, but I never did. Terrible things happened to me, Will, but they didn't make me a killer.”

 

Will inhales deeply and then smiles at the tone of his voice, that pretentious, arrogant and cruel tone he assumes when he tries to scare him, when he describes how he'll kill him in minute details and Will is perfectly aware that he could and would do it if he had to. 

 

“I know. Your tragic past doesn't excuse your crimes, doesn't make it acceptable to me or to you, and that's something I appreciate, that I really don't need to blind myself like that, I never had to and never will. But I also know you've never told anyone any of this: and maybe you really, really needed to, so you can close that door forever; it won't change you, but... I don't know... I guess it may help. Just like I know you're not telling me everything, that you're keeping something still hidden, maybe because you're not ready yet to talk to me about it or because you don't want to, because you don't think I deserve that privilege just yet. It's fine either way, because I can wait.”

 

Hannibal doesn't move or flinch when Will pulls one of his sleeves up and digs his nail into his old, fading scar so hard he could break the skin if he wanted. But he doesn't. And Hannibal seems pleased by it. Will kisses the red marks, before returning to his food.

 

“You are very dangerous, Will, and also very, very irresponsible. Always walking a very fine line with your own life perilously on the verger of destruction.”

 

“It's surprising I'm still alive, isn't it?”

 

The man grabs his wrist and holds it so hard for a second Will is afraid he may break it just to make a point, just to show him how stupid it can be to tease a predator; he could do it, snap his bones and make him scream, cut off his hand and feed it back to him. But he doesn't: after a moment he lets go. And he's smiling.

 

“Finish your dinner, Will.”

 

\-----

 

The sanguinaccio looks surprisingly nonthreatening and uninteresting once it's placed in front of him in a small glass bowl, garnished only with a cinnamon stick, a simple vanilla flower and two slices of candied orange. In his thoughts, it was a dish leaking with blood and gore, and feels slightly let down and embarrassed because of it.

 

Hannibal stares at him and now he is finally fully present and attentive, concentrated on him and on his reactions, his eyes shining and his mouth twisted up in a satisfied smile: the blank and distant expression is gone, replaced by his usual control. Will feels smaller, confined in the seat he's occupying, like he has his back pressed against the wall, and at the same time wants to push himself forward and drink the cup Hannibal is offering him, kiss him with his mouth still full.

 

He lets out a nervous laugh and diligently sips the dessert wine Hannibal filled his glass with instead.

 

“So how do you want to do this? We take a bite at the same time? Would you like me to spoon feed you?”

 

“You've drank quite a lot tonight.”

 

“So have you, you can save all your judgment for my drinking habits for tomorrow, I'm sure.”

 

Hannibal's lips curve into a smile that fails to reach his eyes, leaving the unsettling impression of a predator assessing his prey before attacking and devouring it; Will imagines himself spread on the table, while Hannibal cuts off little pieces of him and eats them raw right in front of him, blood dripping on his chin; imagines himself doing the same to him and it's intoxicating more than the alcohol that rushes through his veins, and that makes his head light and his face like he's on fire.

 

“Are you nervous?”

 

Will tries to sound calm, but his voice still comes out in a hushed whisper, like he's afraid to speak too loudly and somehow ruin the moment. Hannibal frown.

 

“I'm not entirely sure, I have to be honest. I feel suddenly very aware of the importance of this moment, but at the same time... removed from the idea that what I am about to consume is a part of my body.”

 

He nods and tries to imagine how it must be like in Hannibal's minds right now, what he might be thinking about: sometimes he imagines his mind like a library, silent, heavy, with hidden truths and revelations awaiting him in every corner and he's not sure he wants to know what lies in there. But now there must be an unusual turmoil in it, a sense of unsteadiness Will knows too well and wonders if Hannibal knows at all.

 

“We should do it together.”

 

The man rises his eyebrows and smiles indulgently.

 

“A sudden and unexpected bout of sentimentalism from you, Will: I'm oddly flattered.”

 

“I'm not being sentimental, just practical. It's the best way to do it. You went to such lengths to make sure we could experience this moment in the right state of mind and being fair and honest with each other; seems fit we go all the way down together.”

 

Hannibal drinks some wine as well, and his lips shine red like his eyes in the dim light around them: his fingers tap on the knife under his left hand, a gesture Will remembers from another time; he wonders if he's imagining to cut his throat so he can mix their blood together and then taste them both in his mouth. But in the end, he simply nods and scoops a little bit of cream in his silver spoon, with Will hurrying to imitate him.

 

They exchange a long look and then Will observes him while Hannibal brings the spoon to his mouth and consumes its content, followed by him a second later.

 

The flavor and the texture are rich, they fill his mouth and for a few seconds his senses are overwhelmed by the mix of dark chocolate and cinnamon, unable to distinguish anything else: Will forces himself not to swallow right away, but to savor slowly, dissecting the taste like he'd do with a crime scene.

 

His eyes are closed, so he can't see Hannibal while he tries to concentrate only on his mouth; the chocolate is bitter, the cinnamon and the vanilla enriching its sweeter notes and then... and the bottom of it all there it is: a metallic and organic aftertaste that remain in his mouth after he has finished swallowing his bite, and that lingers in his throat.

 

Hannibal is staring at him when he opens his eyes again, an expectant look on his face: the chef waiting for the compliments of his customers to the very end, even when he's what is being consumed.

 

The wine washes away some of the taste, but it doesn't leave completely.

 

“Did you like it?”

 

Hannibal's smile widens, exposing his teeth.

 

“Perhaps too much cinnamon. But overall... yes. I am glad to know my blood does not taste hideously and did not ruin the dish. But my own comments are obviously biased. Did you like it?”

 

“It was perfect, you know it was. Now I know what you taste like to me.”

 

“And what do I taste like to you Will?”

 

Will wants to take his hand, instead eats more, another couple of bites while Hannibal's bowl remains untouched and the man seems satisfied to just observe him.

 

“You're the metallic aftertaste of blood and death in my mouth.”

 

Hannibal moves too fast, grabs him and pulls him closer, kisses him hard and sucks on his lower lip: the angle is awkward and uncomfortable, but Will still digs his fingers into his neck and pulls his hair until the man moans in his mouth. When he pulls away, Hannibal caresses his cheek gently and brushes away some residue of cream, sucking on his own finger while Will watches him entranced and captured by the sight.

 

“Appropriate I'd say.”

 

“Yeah, it is. It reminds me who you really are, it gives you a place in my world. And I like it.”

 

Will watches him continue eating for a while, before speaking again, feeling his stomach flutter and clench at the thought of his proposal: it makes him shiver despite the warm room and he smiles at his own boldness, at the darkness that sips deep into his bones.

 

“We could use mine next time.”

 

He stares at the surprised expression on Hannibal's face from the brim of the glass, feeling victorious and proud of it.

 

“Yes. We could. Indeed we could.”

 

Hannibal kisses him again and Will abandons himself into his arms, the monsters inside both of them circling each other before settling down in a deathly embrace.

 

It feels good.


End file.
